Ayam What Ayam
by demonegg
Summary: One-shot from that devilish Duke of Decay, Ayam Aghoul, as he talks about death, love, and a certain princess and her pesky street rat. Happens after 'The Spice is Right.'


I am Ayam Aghoul. Lord of the Underworld. Casanova of Coffins. Bringer of Fear and Pestilence to the Mortal World. Suffice it to say, I am the ghost of gravest importance, the most esteemed figure in the lower realms since that fool Hades ran off with the ultimate damsel in distress Persephone. Seriously, he had every god's dream: a beautiful woman bound to him for all eternity. A woman who could only nag him for four months out of the year. A woman whose mother couldn't visit. And still, like every suicidal Romeo he's admitted to these depths, he chased after her when she left in the spring. Fortunately for me, I am not so lost when it comes to marriage. Sure, I have wives, thirteen hundred seventy-seven to be exact, but I am not the one doing the chasing. THEY cook, THEY clean, and THEY decorate my humble abode with the most disturbingly delicious cobwebs in all the nooks and crannies. In short, they're utterly devoted to and completely perfect for me. Never in death shall we part.

Wait one second. I know what your feeble mortal mind is pondering. How the hell did that devil of death Ayam acquire so many beautiful wives, with their skeletons rattling in the winds like the hollow pipes in a funeral dirge, their skulls as creamy white as the sheets of ghosts, their bones as fleshless and barren as the netherworld itself? Well, it certainly wasn't my devastatingly decrepit figure and ashen complexion. (Although for that otherworldly glow, I spend thirty minutes every morning basking in a crematorium. Works wonders, and I love the smell of the embalmed in the morning.) But no, my handsome looks and witty charm have nothing to do with my success in love. My secret is far simpler.

Force.

You mortal humans think you have to wait for love. Love conquers all, all you need is love. Let me dispel that myth right now. Love is weak; the only sure thing in your life is death. (Although for the record, I have heard some nasty rumors about taxes.) My death conquered all their hopes for love, and not one of my conquests was spared.

Well, there was that one, but she was undeserving of my kiss of death. Completely and utterly ungrateful, even after I built the perfect three-morgue honeymoon suite, complete with a white ribcage fence and a quaint little carnivorous plant garden right next to her family home.

You see, up until that point, I had an almost flawless track record. I say almost, only because there was a slight incident a century or two ago involving a sorceress, a minor trifle really, where after one too many Zombies and Bloody Marys, I was trapped in the underworld by my own accursed necklace that bound my wives to me. (Hey, if the almighty Aphrodite gets a magic girdle to ensnare lovers, I get to cheat, too.)

Still, I learned my lesson. (Gentlemen, consider yourselves forewarned. When a witch says she's going to capture you body and soul, she means it. Literally.) I never approached non-mortals again; the risks were far too great, and there was always a chance of crossing spells, which can lead to some highly undesirable side effects like wives actually retaining the ability to think for themselves. Quite frankly, I'll never understand how you mortal men can tolerate such insubordination in your domestic help.

So you know, after having a couple of centuries to mull over my mistakes, I decided the only logical way to keep my harem well-stocked was to pursue mortal women exclusively, which was perfect for me since the first victim of my courtship was a lovely young desert princess. Really, she had the most beautiful bone structure. And such large eye sockets- almost like seashells! I bet if you had held her skull up to your ear, you could have heard the Dead Sea in them.

Anyways, in the ultimate twist of irony, her love-struck fiancé had given her the necklace as a wedding gift that inadvertently engaged his betrothed to me. The marriage should have been a done deal, but considering this was my first marriage in two hundred years, I too started feeling a bit romantic and allowed my bride-to-be to plan a more traditional Agrabanian wedding.

I endured those cockamamie customs; I knew they were stalling for time, but at the moment, I never considered that a mortal could actually break up one of my marriages. After all, her feeble-minded boyfriend had already received a nasty shock from trying to yank the necklace from her graceful neck- as if I ever got thirteen hundred seventy-seven wives by making it that easy to thwart me. Why you humans insist on insulting the intelligence of us immortals, I'll never know. For the love of Hades, I'm the Great Graveyard Groom; I didn't get to be a demigod because I was easily foiled by some half-baked human scheme. But I digress.

So I indulged their delusions: I limboed, I dove from high springboards into pita bread, and despite all of her threats of never loving me (Seriously, what was she thinking? It's not like I've never heard that line before), I eventually dragged her towards her eternal home sweet home.

But naturally, the Fates still decided to test my patience. That street trash of hers had to discover the secret to my enslavement and sprinkle the sorceress's magical binding spice on my necklace. The princess promptly gained her freedom, only to cost me mine as I was sucked right back into the netherworld in that accursed purple cyclone. And believe me, being trapped in the underworld without my thirteen hundred seventy-eighth wife was not quite the picture-perfect honeymoon I imagined.

So yes, now I'm stuck here in Hell with the same thirteen hundred seventy-seven bags of bones that I've endured for ages. Thank Hades I'm still surrounded by all my lovely decay and despair, or I'd really be in a rotten mood.

You might be wondering how I can still have such high spirits after so much humiliation and inconvenience. It's quite simple actually. I'm not going to concern myself with her life. Let her have her love; let her live and love and dream of days to come. Because in the end, nothing can save her, not that infernal genie or her precious street rat. Death comes to them all, and when it comes to her, I'll be ready. She's going to spend all eternity paying for running out on our wedding. So yes, let her love, let her love until her heart bursts; my victory will be all the sweeter. And my victory is inevitable.

We shall meet again, my Princess. Soon. So very soon.


End file.
